There are a multitude of people, all in black. All the same, yet all very different.
Some are men and some are women; some are blond and some have red hair; some are tanned and some are pale as death - but, they all are in black and they all look the same. There is a heavy gloom about the hall - it is as if the world has forgotten about color and if you try hard enough, you can taste the sadness in the air, and it makes you want to cry.
Your three-year old self does not exactly understand what is happening, and your bewilderment shows clearly on your face.
You want to know where your mother is, but no one will tell you anything. You have not seen her in days.
She goes on trips sometimes, and people always tell you where she is, and point it out on the globe at home, just like your mother normally does before she leaves. She did not this time though.
You did not know she was leaving until she did not come back home.
They say she has gone away, and that she is watching you. Why then, you ask, can you not watch her too? You do not care. You want her to come home.
Now they look uncomfortable, eyes darting, murmur something about heaven (what is that?) and say that at three, you are too young to understand - how can you, though, when no one will tell you anything? You want your mother and she is not there.
You see a big wooden box in the centre of the room, that the people in this dank, stone-walled cathedral with pretty little stained glass windows seem adamant to keep you away from. You wonder what is in it. It is a pretty, rectangular box, stained dark, and ornately carved. It is levitated on a stand above a deep, vibrant burgundy carpet that your mother would hate. Your mother hates red, but only you know that, even if you do not know why. People like to give her red things because they look good on her. You are proud that your mother tells you secrets.
There are wreaths of roses, some red; some dyed black. It seems sort of scary, but oddly fitting in the somber room.
Someone holds your hand. An aunt. You do not really like her, but she is the only one in this room that you recognize.
Her palm is cold and clammy, and you would have yanked you hand out from hers if she had not had such a tight grip on you.
Your clothes are black too, and made of an awful material that makes your skin crawl. You squish the urge to fidget and squirm - you have been taught better than that. 'It's rude,' your mother tells you.
People line up, and more roses are given out. This time, they are individual and white, and the sudden burst of sheer brightness makes you blink. You are not given one, however, and you are rather put out by it. Slowly, people place the roses in the box, and look sadly at something inside that you cannot see.
Your older sister, once a part of the black blur, steps out and kneels in front of you, smiling and holding out her arms. You are relieved to see another familiar face, and to be away from your aunt, so you bury your face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent, and her arms wrap around you in a tight embrace. She carries you over to the box, where people try to stop her, and they block her way. 'He does not understand! He needs to say goodbye,' she hisses, and you know that she is talking about you. They let her pass.
You see your mother in the box. She has a proud, dignified sort of aristocratic elegance that simply emphasizes her seeming frigidity, and her eyes are closed. She is beautiful, but there are scars on her face that were not there before. Her eyelids are shaded dark, and her lips stained red, as if it were summer and she'd eaten too many berries again. Her face is caked with skin-colored paint, making her look stiff, fake and unnatural, and it is something you want to claw and scratch off. She is normally full of warmth and life, and you do not understand why she does not move.
You reach out to touch her face to know that she is really there, and she is hard and icy. Her hand does not come up to clasp yours and she does not open her eyes and smile at you. Slowly, your realization sets in. A while ago, your grandmother was exactly the same, and your mother had explained what that meant.
You did not quite care then. You do now, and greatly so.
You let out a half-strangled cry, and wild-eyed, you search for an escape in this entirely too claustrophobic room. Your sister hugs you to her, and she smells like your mother - of vanilla, and apples and cinnamon - and for a second you are calm, before you remember what so distressed you in the first place.
You shake your head stubbornly, gaping, trying to say something, but all your mind can think is no, and all you can whisper is no. You wriggle out of her arms and run down the aisle of the cathedral; out the doors. There is a sycamore tree outside, on which fading, blue fairy lights are hung, and you climb it. You sit on a branch, and hug your torso tight, hoping that if you constrict it enough, your heart will not burst.
Your mother is gone too, like your father (who was never there anyway), and she's not coming back.
You do not notice that you are crying.
It occurs to you that she did not even say goodbye.
You realize that you did not say goodbye.
You start to weep in earnest, and you ask the Gods 'why'.